


A Proper Brawl Doesn’t Just Happen

by ambitiousbutrubbish



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Daemons, M/M, References to Depression, cautionary reminder that in the brick Enjolras kills a man in cold blood as a punishment, don’t come in here expecting a morally pure rebel, ok don’t forget that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-27 19:46:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13255347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ambitiousbutrubbish/pseuds/ambitiousbutrubbish
Summary: Grantaire supposes that he can’t make assumptions on people’s true character if he’s literally never spoken to them before, but he had a very clear picture in his head, of Enjolras with some sort of big cat for a daemon: a lioness or something similar, hissing and spitting and furious. Or a large dog; quick to anger, but protective. Or, hell, maybe a bear. Not in a million years would he have imaginedthis.Grantaire is a cynic with the soul of a devotee.





	A Proper Brawl Doesn’t Just Happen

**Author's Note:**

> None of the daemons have names because I don’t get paid enough to think of names.

Grantaire’s first thought is that if the man were a statue, he’d be one of those ancient masterpieces; placed in a city square and yet miraculously never vandalised. Just so awe-inspiring that no one would think to ever touch it. Even the birds would avoid pooing on it. But the flush high on the man’s cheeks betray him as more than perfect marble, and the sunlight settles in his golden curls the way it never could in cold stone. 

Still, he is beautiful in a way that Grantaire would dearly love to sculpt himself, had any of his passion for the medium remained. He’d paint him instead, but lately he’s had trouble focussing on his art for any real amount of time. Joly has been pestering him to go back to seeing his therapist, but Grantaire keeps finding things to ‘come up’ so he’ll have to cancel the appointment Joly makes at the last minute. 

And a _sketch_ just wouldn’t cut it. So Grantaire settles for whipping out his phone and taking a bad, motion-blurred photo; all in one movement so he doesn't seem like a creep, even though the man isn’t looking in his direction. 

Grantaire is glad he took the long, meandering route back to his apartment from the club. Normally after he’s been day drinking, he’ll sneak back home as quickly as he can with his hood pulled up and his face kept in shadow, but he figured it doesn’t really count as day drinking if he just never stopped from the night before. And 8am isn’t really the day, either - it’s early morning at best, so he had decided to wander home along the Seine before cutting back across a few blocks to his apartment. Which is how he ends up spotting the protest. 

It’s really too early for protesting. It’s too early for students too, but Grantaire supposes that if you want to protest _and_ go to university you have to sacrifice things like sleep and stereotypical student lifestyles. Besides, the word clearly got out - the event is fairly well attended, and there’s even a few counter-protestors milling around the edges. And Grantaire can’t even say he’s actually surprised, given who’s standing in the middle of it all. Hell, _he_ would have taken a flyer from the guy during his own brief shot at university, and he wouldn’t even have thrown it away on purpose. 

He’s tall and slim and blonde and when Grantaire gets close to the protest he can hear his voice above the music blaring out of his earphones. And even if Grantaire was prepared to sit down and paint, it wouldn’t make a difference, because he’d never find a way to ask his permission, anyway. He doesn’t imagine they run in the same circles. Because his words are fiery and passionate and _angry_ , and Joly is interested in protesting and changing the world, but Grantaire gave up on all those ideals a long time ago. He doesn’t believe the world can be a better place. Everything returns to the status quo - the rich get richer and the poor stay the same and the middle class would stand on their necks and drown them in the mud if it meant they could keep their heads above it. And nothing anyone says will change that - will change _human nature_ \- not even beautiful boys with passion and fervour and a twelve point plan to change the way mathematics is taught in schools. It’s honestly a goddamn boring protest, but Grantaire finds himself ensnared in it all the same. 

He can’t possibly imagine why the counter-protestors around the fringes of the group are even against the changes, but he supposes some people just want to be anti-anything new. There’s not many of them, but they’re also older than the students, and this seems to embolden them. One shoves a protestor, crashing him into another, and they both spin around and push him back. The man on the stage pauses in his speech, his eyes on the scuffle and his hands clenching into fists.

For a brief, weightless moment Grantaire can feel the scene balancing on a knife-edge. And then the great grey owl on the man’s shoulder leans down and nips him on the ear. 

The man blinks and unclenches, and continues smoothly onto step ten. Grantaire sighs in relief, but he doesn’t leave until the man steps off the stage to cheers and applause. 

********************

Joly calls in a panic, which in itself is not a irregular occurrence. Joly is one of the bravest people Grantaire knows, but he’s also a hypochondriac, and in the right frame of mind he can think just about anything is life-threatening. Grantaire would almost laugh at his choice to study medicine of all things, but it’s why he’s so brave - he’s terrified of being sick, but not as much as he’s afraid of not helping people, and of not facing up to his fears. 

It is odd that he’s calling tonight, though, as he usually spends Thursdays at his little activist meetings. Occasionally he still tries to get Grantaire to come along to them with him and Bossuet, and if Joly ever stopped trying it would kill him, because it would mean he’s finally given up on him.

The buzzing wakes Grantaire from his doze on the couch, and he reaches over blindly to turn the speaker on so he doesn’t actually have to pick the phone up. “Grantaire, I need you to come and pick me up.” Joly says, and the tinny quality through speakerphone is made all the more apparent by how high pitched and choked his voice is. “Bossuet got called away for a work emergency. He’s probably going to get fired again. And no one here can drive me home. I’ll have to take the _bus_. And it’s full of germs and I _can’t do it_ right now, and–“.

“I’ll be there in fifteen.” Grantaire interrupts, and jumps in his car. He left the keys in the ignition again, but still somehow it hasn’t managed to get stolen. Grantaire can’t quite figure out if he’s leaving them in there by accident, or if he’s subconsciously trying to have no car so he has an excuse not to leave the house. Sometimes his brain likes to play crappy little tricks on him like that. 

The café isn’t actually particularly far away, but it’s in the middle of a bunch of stupid one-way streets, and Grantaire has to drive all the way around to get to it. When he pulls up out front, Joly is waiting on the curb for him, his snake daemon curled up and around his cane, her head resting on the top like some kind of cool cap. It’s a move she pulls when he’s particularly anxious, the times when Joly is sure that the thin little piece wood is the only thing holding him upright. 

He’s not alone. The guy waiting for him is tall and thin and dark, and he’s wearing terrible clothes, like he rolled out of bed and pulled on the least dirty things off the floor, even though they don’t match. But he also has shockingly great hair. And sitting on his shoulder is the owl. 

It could be a coincidence. This guy and the man from the protest could just have the same daemons. It happens sometimes, when people are particularly in sync. But it’s not. Because it’s the same owl. Grantaire doesn’t know how he knows this, but he does.

He takes a few deep breaths before he flings open his car door and jogs around to Joly. He takes his face between his hands and forces him to look into his eyes. “Are you okay?” He asks, and Joly can lie to your face easy enough, but the eyes are the windows to the soul or some poetic crap, and from hip-height Grantaire can hear Joly’s daemon’s hiss, and she’s more embarrassed than she is frightened, now. 

Grantaire nods and lets him go. He looks over to the man next to Joly, who is watching them with a curious expression on his face. “Grantaire.” Grantaire says offhandedly, and the man smiles politely.

“Combeferre.” He says, and he reaches out his hand to shake. Internally, Grantaire curses himself for forgetting to do it first. “Joly and Bossuet have mentioned you.” 

Grantaire dips his head, and then says without really thinking. “Cool owl.”

Beside him, Joly chokes on air. Commenting on another person’s daemon isn’t usually done, and Grantaire wants to shove his words back into his mouth. He’d turn and run, if he thought Joly could keep up.

Combeferre’s eyes widen a little in surprise, but he doesn’t punch him in the face or anything, so Grantaire considers it a win. “Thank you.” He says, and he does sound genuinely appreciative. “I thought she’d settled as a moth for years, but when Enjolras started going to protests we knew that she was too delicate for what he was going to get us into.”

Grantaire wishes he paid enough attention to Joly when he tells him about his activism so he’s know who the hell Combeferre was talking about. But he smiles, anyway. He doesn’t want to talk about his own daemon. It’s not as simple a story. “That sounds sensible.” He says instead. “And it was nice to meet you, but we really should be getting home.” He motions to Joly who nods and starts making his way to the car. “Someone needs to be there to comfort Bossuet when he’s fired again.”

Combeferre hums in agreement. “I’ll check on him tomorrow.” He says. “It was nice to meet you too, Grantaire. You should come along to one of our meetings.” 

Grantaire makes a small noncommittal noise of acknowledgement. He likes Joly and Bossuet, and Combeferre seems nice enough, but he has no intention of becoming involved in social justice again.

********************

Grantaire’s really more of a social drinker these days. It’s not necessarily an improvement. He still loves wine as much as he ever did, and condensing all the consumption he wants to do over weeks into one night is not exactly healthy.

He used to go to the park to drink (and sometimes to get high, but alcohol has always been his drug of choice). Because at least if he was outside, someone would notice if he died, and he wouldn’t be left in his apartment to be discovered weeks later, once the stench became unbearable. But eventually that lost its appeal, once he realised just how much approval he got getting pissed out of his mind at parties and making a fool of himself. Grantaire acknowledges that he may be depressed and self-destructive, but at least he is also self-aware.

Nowadays he goes to the park to people watch. He hasn’t done it for weeks, but the man at the protest inspired him to look for beauty in things again. He’s been experimenting with photography. He’d always dismissed it, largely because he can’t afford a good camera, but technology has reached a point where a phone can take a serviceable enough photo, so long as he resists the temptation to crop and blow up too much. And a bootlegged copy of photoshop can hide a lot of mistakes. At this point it’s more just about getting the eye in, and a good head for composition.

Grantaire scans his phone across the park in front of him, watching it all pass by on the screen and hoping a shot leaps out at him. The sun beating down on him makes for interesting lighting patterns around trees, but it doesn’t do wonders for the sky, and he’s about to give it up for a lost cause for the day when he spots him. 

Grantaire zooms in as far as far as his phone will let him, and even though it makes the image on the screen shake around a little, the details are still perfectly clear. The man from the protest is sitting on a bench under a tree, his eyes closed and his head thrown back. The sun shines down on him through the trees and settles in his hair like he’s a damn angel, and Grantaire is glad he has art on the mind that he can forgive himself for his thoughts, and the way they kind of make him want cry. 

The man’s hair shakes a little and parts, and Grantaire can see a small shape appear. He edges closer, until he can just make out the face of the tiniest monkey he’s ever seen, tugging at the man’s curls. It’s tail hangs down long and just brushing his collar, and Grantaire must have somehow completely missed its climb up to the top of the man’s head. 

The monkey takes a firm grasp of his hair and leans down to chitter something in his ear. And then the man smiles, eyes closed and face still tilted up at the sky, and Grantaire can’t think of a time when he wanted anything more than to take his photo. But he can’t do it. Not like this. It wouldn’t be right. 

So instead he sits there and watches until he leaves. Like a creep. It’s not his proudest moment. But he also doesn’t regret it, either.

********************

When he first started seeing his therapist, she had encouraged him to start getting regular exercise. Grantaire had moaned and groaned and put it off for weeks, but eventually he’d joined a gym and discovered a love for boxing. To begin with, the appeal had been in getting punched in the face. When she’d asked for a progress report, he’d told his therapist that in the hopes that she’d tell him to stop and he could give up. But she’d only nodded and jotted it down, and Grantaire resolved to get better at it, so he could wipe her cool detachment off her face. 

And he did. Get better, at least. Soon he was boxing every day, even if it was only for a few minutes. The first time he saw his therapist with no bruises on his face she had smiled at him, and Grantaire forgot why he had pushed so hard to improve in the first place.

Even once he stopped seeing his therapist and stopped taking proper care of himself again, boxing had become such a habit that Grantaire still found himself at the gym.

Usually he spars with Bahorel, but he’s late today. So instead, Grantaire finds himself a punching bag and slips into the steady routine of punches and blocks. It’s familiar, and it’s easy to let his mind drift away with the rhythm. He doesn’t even hear Bahorel enter, or notice him standing right beside him until he coughs loudly. He stops punching and turns to face him. And standing next to him is a short, curly-haired man wearing leggings and a top that Grantaire distinctly remembers Channing Tatum sporting in 22 Jump Street. He grins, and holds out his hand for Grantaire to shake.”Courfeyrac.” He says, then seems to remember Grantaire is wearing boxing gloves, and makes a fist to bump instead. Grantaire obliges, introducing himself in turn, and Bahorel smiles between the two of them like he’s proud they’ve managed a successful social interaction.

“I can’t stay.” He says. “Got a date. But I couldn’t leave you here all alone, R, so I brought Courfeyrac to spar instead.”

Grantaire balks at the idea. Courfeyrac is about the same height as him, true, but he is far slimmer, and Grantaire doesn’t want to hurt him. It’s fine with Bahorel, because he’s tall and solidly built, so Grantaire doesn’t feel like he has to hold anything back. But Courfeyrac doesn’t look like he’s ever seen a fight in his life; if for no other reason than he’s wearing a tank top that says “sun’s out, gun’s out”. Plus, he’s very pretty, and Grantaire would hate to mess that up. Bahorel notices his hesitation, and smirks. “Good luck.” He says as he leaves, not seeming to direct it at either one of them in particular. 

Courfeyrac is still grinning at him when Grantaire looks back at him. He supposes it _is_ mildly irritating that he appears to be such a positive person, so he decides he _can_ spar with him. “Do you have your own gloves?” He asks, and Courfeyrac shakes his head.

“Not with me.” He says. “I hadn’t planned on doing this today. I’ll just borrow some of the gym ones.” And he looks around pointedly. Grantaire gestures towards them and Courfeyrac jogs over to grab a pair and jogs back. He puts his backpack on the ground and starts pulling the gloves on, grimacing. Grantaire can only imagine that they must be damp with other people’s sweat, and he’s about to joke about it when Courfeyrac’s backpack wiggles, and a face pops put the top, and it’s the tiny monkey he saw with the man in the park earlier in the day. 

He wants to ask about it, but Courfeyrac is already strapped up and stepping into the ring, and his stance betrays that he may know a little more about boxing than his frame suggests.

Five minutes later, Grantaire is sitting in a chair beside the ring, his face smarting under the icepack Courfeyrac is holding. He looks a little guilty, but also a little smug, and Grantaire can’t begrudge him that. He’d underestimated him. Courfeyrac has a mean right hook, and he’s _quick_ , but his technique does not suggest someone who does his fighting in a boxing ring.

“How does a nice boy like you know how to throw a punch like that?” He asks, and Coufeyrac looks confused for a beat, before he smiles widely.

“My friend Enjolras kept getting into fights, and I couldn’t let him have all the fun.” He replies, and he doesn’t lose the grin but he does sound a little strained. 

Grantaire feels a flash of recognition at that name, but it skips his mind fairly quickly when Courfeyfac’s monkey suddenly runs up his leg and out along his arm to press its tiny hand against the ice pack held to Grantaire’s eye. He stiffens, but Courfeyrac doesn’t seem overly bothered.

“She’s not good at boundaries.” He says by way of explanation. “But she won’t touch you unless you say she can.”

Grantaire wants to nod his agreement, but he’s too worried about her slipping. He knows he’s radiating discomfort, and Courfeyrac reaches up and picks up his daemon. She curls up around his fingers, and looks out over them at Grantaire. 

“Everyone made fun of us when we were young, because she was always so small, whatever form she took.” Courfeyrac continues. “But they forgot that small just means you can get into places others can’t.” He grins, and it’s _sharp_. “And monkeys have opposable thumbs.” His daemon bares her teeth at Grantaire, in what he guesses is her own attempt at a smile, and somehow she doesn’t seem quite so tiny and delicate; her teeth pointed and impossibly white.

********************

When Grantaire has the time to think, he remembers hearing the name Enjolras from Combeferre too - once may have been a coincidence, but twice is too much, and Grantaire makes Joly tear up a little when he tells him he wants to come along to the next rally. Even telling him he’s not interested in the cause doesn’t really disappoint him. 

When he was younger, Grantaire went to a lot of protests. He really _believed_ in things, and he believed that a person with an idea could change the world. But his steadily progressing age coincided with steadily progressing cynicism, and by the time he was half way through high school he only left home for class, and to loiter outside supermarkets to convince adults to buy him alcohol.

This protest is nothing like he remembers. Perhaps in the past he had simply been too young at the time to read the mood of the room, but now he can feel the tension, the pressure building like they’re trapped in a room with the walls closing in, rather than the open square. He recognises Courfeyrac on the stage, his tiny monkey baring her teeth on the top of his head, and one arm held aloft, a piece of paper in his hand. And he recognises the look in his eye. It’s the same one he had right before he punched him in the face. And Grantaire tenses now like he had then, as Courfeyrac’s daemon leaps from his head and runs up his arm, a matchstick clutched in her hand. and Courfeyrac holds up the box for her to strike it and then set the paper alight.

Grantaire hadn’t been paying enough attention to his words to know exactly what the paper was, but he appears to be the only one, because the people around him cheer. And then from the back comes the sound of a scuffle, some cut off shouts, someone says “police”, and Grantaire turns just in time to see someone throw a punch. 

And the crowd _erupts_.

It’s like someone flipped a switch. The listening crowd turns into a mob, and people are pressing in and jostling on all sides. Grantaire pushes his way through the crowd, towards the stage that is empty aside from Courfeyrac - still standing with his burning paper - to find somewhere free of flailing limbs. He's about to vault up onto the platform when he hears a scuffle behind him, and a pained gasp, and he turns to see an older man on the ground, with two guys just kicking him in any place they happen to make contact. And see, Grantaire isn’t stupid. He knows not everyone goes to a protest because they support the cause. Some are there to oppose it. Some, like him when he first saw Enjolras, just stop to see what’s going on. And some just come along for the chance of a fight.

Grantaire sees a glimpse of the man’s face through his attacker’s legs, and it’s bloody and twisted into a pained grimace, and the man’s name escapes him, but it definitely starts with an ‘M’ and Grantaire _recognises_ him. He gave him a tour of a local church when Grantaire was trying to find inspiration for an art project. He was a little absentminded, but he was _kind_ , and Grantaire is debating the best way to intervene without getting beaten up himself, when one of the kicker’s stumbles back and turns deathly pale. 

And the crowd parts and the other attacker turns and in though the gap steps Enjolras. He looks like an angel, and not the sweet cherubs from the Renaissance paintings. But like if he touched you, you would burn from the inside. There’s blood on his face, and there’s blood on his knuckles and in his hands he’s holding a large grey cat. It’s limp and breathing quickly and shallowly and the man is dry-retching and Grantaire knows he should be horrified. _Disgusted_. His own intrusive questions about people’s daemons are mere gaffs in comparison. It’s worse than not done, to touch someone else’s daemon. But instead it’s a savage pride that builds in Grantaire’s chest, and barely catches in his throat; pride that Enjolras stopped the attack, that he likely saved an old man’s life. And in that split second, Grantaire knows that even though they’ve never spoken, even though he doesn’t even know if Enjolras is a first or last name, what he _does_ know is that he will forgive him anything. 

Enjolras looks at the first man and he says “leave”, and the man bolts, his own cat daemon darting out between the legs of the mob around them and streaking after him. He turns to the second. “You too.” He says, and he bends down to put the cat in his hands gently down on the ground. Man and cat weave and stumble towards each other like they’re drunk, and Grantaire looks passed them to Enjolras, who helps the man still laying on the ground to his feet. He sways and his knees go weak and Enjolras half-carries him to the platform and sits him down on the edge, before vaulting up into the stage himself. 

Courfeyrac slides from behind the microphone without a fuss, and Enjolras takes his place. “Remember this. “ He says, and his voice rings bright and clear over the noise of the mob. “Remember what happened here today. Remember that we did not start this, that we were silenced by force. Remember that we were peaceful in our protest before the police interfered. Do not let them get away with it. Do not let what we are here for today be derailed. Do not let the media twist it.” 

For a moment, Grantaire feels the strangest urge to just do something stupid, to cheer or applaud or climb up on stage himself and join Enjoras. Instead, he rips his gaze away from the stage and looks around for anything else to take his attention. He lands on Combeferre, standing beside the stage with his phone pointed at Enjolras And on the police officer sneaking up behind him. 

And Grantaire makes the kind of stupid, split-second decision he’d been trying to avoid. He doesn’t even think, he just steps forward, and keeps walking until he’s standing between Combeferre and the approaching police officer. “Please, you have to help me.” He says, and he channels all of the righteous anger he’s barely pushing down into making his voice crack at the end like he’s afraid. “My friend. He got hit.” Grantaire gestures at name-starts-with-M, still sitting on the stage and staring somewhat vacantly ahead. “He needs an ambulance. Please can you watch him?” It’s a good cover, because it’s probably true - an ambulance wouldn’t be a bad idea, looking at the man’s glazed eyes and the sluggishly bleeding gash on his head. 

The police officer is agitated and jittery, trying to look around or _through_ Grantaire to Combeferre behind him, and for a moment Grantaire is sure that he’s going to ignore him and the dazed and bleeding man and push passed him, but instead he sighs and makes his way over to the stage.

When Grantaire turns around, Combeferre is nowhere to be seen. But the other police officers have forced their way through the mob and up onto the stage. One grabs an unresisting Courfeyrac by the wrists and zip-ties his hands together behind his back. His monkey daemon darts back down his arm and leaps across to his head, grabbing on tight to his hair, and Grantaire can’t help but be struck by the way she ran from the cop, when she had been so interested in him. Two of the other police officers walk forward to flank Enjolras. One reaches to his holster, and pulls out what looks shockingly like a gun, and for one heart-stopping moment, Grantaire feels like his stomach is full of lead and all the breath has been punched out of him. The noise of the mob seems to cut off deathly short. And then the moment is over, and Grantaire’s brain jumpstarts and he sees that it is only a taser - dangerous in its own right, even occasionally deadly, but not the gut churning fear and magnetic awareness of a firearm. 

Enjolras steps down from the microphone and puts his hands behind his own back with little protest, and the police lead him and Courfeyrac away. The ease with which it all happens has an old familiarity. And Enjolras being pushed through the silent, staring crowd, his golden head held high and proud, is the single most inspiring thing Grantaire has ever seen.Looking at the faces around him, Grantaire can see his own feelings reflected back at him, in every tightly clenched jaw and every flame of burning resentment and anger in their eyes. 

As the crowd parts for them, Grantaire catches a glimpse of a great head of hair on top of a body inexplicably wearing a neon purple jacket over a washed out yellow shirt, and he genuinely can’t tell if Combeferre is a hipster, or just doesn’t understand how colours work. Either way they make eye contact for the briefest of moments, and Combeferre gives him a thumbs up and a wide grin. Grantaire returns the gesture, and it’s been a long, long time that he gave a thumbs up for any reason other than sarcasm.

Grantaire grew out of believing in idealism, but he believes in Enjolras. That he really will change the world. 

********************

Enjolras’ daemon is a chicken. 

Grantaire spots them across the Musain, and he almost walks straight back out of the café then and there, because he just can’t deal with that. He supposes that he can’t make assumptions on people’s true character if he’s literally never spoken to them before, but he had a very clear picture of Enjolras with some sought of big cat: a lioness or something similar, hissing and spitting and furious. Or a large dog, quick to anger, but protective. Or, hell, maybe a bear. Not in a million years would he have imagined Enjolras with a small, fat, fluffy white and brown chicken strutting around at his feet, neck held tall and straight.

Grantaire’s still trying to figure out what he’s going to do, and then the meeting starts. And all thoughts of leaving fade immediately into the background. Combeferre takes centre stage - or table, as it is - with a notebook decorated with small coloured post-it notes in his hand, that he almost immediately puts down on the table and never picks up again. His owl daemon flutters down from the rafters where she had been watching over them and settles down near it, occasionally nipping almost forlornly at the bright pieces of plastic. 

But the group around him seems incapable of moving on from one subject without serious debate. By the time they get to addressing the police action at the rally, Grantaire has been at the Musain for almost two hours, made it through three beers, and has hardly looked away from Enjolras once. He tried not to be creepy for all of five or so minutes, but Enjolras barely speaks during the meeting, and watching the small, controlled expressions that dart across his face and light up his eyes is the only way to know what he’s thinking. Until Combeferre addresses him directly. “How do you feel the protest went?”

“Well.” Enjolras says, in a tone that is clearly challenging anyone to question him. “The passion for our ideas could not be denied.”

Most of the others around him nod along, with varying levels of enthusiasm. Bahorel looks like he’s gearing up to fight all over again. But there’s one boy off to the side - tall, freckled, soft; cute but not in the way Grantaire is into - who looks less pleased with the way the rally turned out. “Passion is all well and good.” He says, and, staring at Enjolras the way he is, Grantaire can clearly see him shut his eyes and breath a heavy, steady breath out through his nose. “But Enjolras. You can’t keep posting your own bail. The supermarket doesn’t pay that well.” Even the small, pretty blonde girl pressed up against the boy’s side screws up her face at that. Their daemons are sitting together at their feet, and the bright green songbird that Grantaire guesses belongs to the girl pecks the boy’s dog on the head. 

“Thank you for your concern, Marius.” Enjolras says, and his voice is tight but calm. “But I can do whatever I want with my money. Besides, it’s hardly my fault that job prospects are so poor for people who didn’t finish high school. Another reason why we need a complete societal overhaul.”

Combeferre coughs loudly and his daemon rustles the papers under her talons, but it’s already too late, and Enjolras is off; about the unfairness of the eduction system, about the refusal of schools to find a way to educate students deemed to be difficult, about the elitism in the job market and how it works to keep people down and society stagnant. Around him, Grantaire can hear scattered murmurs and hums of agreement. A burley red-headed boy slaps his hand on the table. Even Combeferre leans forward and towards Enjolras, like his very presence and words are magnetic. Grantaire understands that. He feels it too. Enjolras makes his blood sing in his veins, and _something_ builds in his chest and pushes its way up his throat and it makes him want to cry or shout his approval or maybe even throw up, he isn’t sure. He takes another gulp from his beer to stop himself doing something embarrassing. 

“They don’t care about educating us.” Enjolras says, and his daemon has made its way up onto the table beside him, feathers fluffed up and raking with its talons in agitation, leaving scratches behind in the wood. “They want to teach us to stay in their safe little boxes. They want us to think that our world is as small and unchanging and _uncaring_ as they need it to be, to stop us forcing change. But we will, and we can. France _does_ care, and she will support us. We can _change_ things.” And it’s everything Grantaire gave up on as idealistic and naïve; but Enjoys says it, and for a few glorious, blissful moments, Grantaire _believes_ it again. 

He stays after the meeting finishes. He doesn’t quite manage to come back to himself right away, and when he sees Enjolras heading straight for him, Grantaire feels himself rooted to the spot like a deer in headlights; torn between wanting to flee, and wanting to launch himself at Enjolras and collapse at his feet. He settles for just staring instead. Enjolras does not look put off. 

"You're new.” Enjolras says by way of greeting. “How did you find the meeting?”

It’s the complete antithesis of the polished and deliberate way he speaks on stage, and Grantaire can’t help but beam at him. “I genuinely don’t care about your cause.” He says, both utterly honestly, and at the same time somehow absolutely not truthfully at all. 

Enjolras frowns, and like every other expression he’s worn since Grantaiire first saw him, he never wants to see anything but it again. “Why are you here then?”

Granter shrugs. “Joly was my roommate for the brief time I went to university, and he’s been trying to get me to come along for ages.” He says, which is actually true, and a safe place to start. “I happened to walk into one of your rallies the other day. And I saw your daemon, and I just had to know: yeah, it’s got angry little dinosaur eyes and those talons made a mess of that table. But I saw you in the middle of that riot. How did _you_ end up with a _chicken_?”

Enjolras doesn’t answer right away, and for a few seconds Grantaire is sure he’s finally gone too far with one of the people here - they’re clearly relaxed about all sorts of social norms, but everyone has limits. But when Enjolras does speak he doesn’t sound angry; only somewhat puzzled. “She wanted to be a rooster.” He says. “But…” He waves his hand vaguely. “She was very disappointed.”

The laughter is forced out of Grantaire, and his eyes shut involuntarily. Because of course - _of course_ \- Enjolras’ daemon would be as close to the national animal of France as she could be. 

It’s only when he opens his eyes again and looks straight into Enjolras’ face that he realises his laugh may have sounded more like a scoff. Enjolras is glaring at him, colour high on his cheeks, jaw tight. Over his shoulder, Grantaire can see his daemon turn her head almost Exorcist-style to look at him with her beady eyes, and she ruffles her feathers. Enjolras’ own eyes are dark and narrowed. It’s kind of terrifying. And beautiful. 

******************** 

For as long as he can remember, Grantaire’s daemon has been a dog. When he was young, she was always a large breed, towering over him. He used to sleep using her belly as a pillow, and she would curl up around him, her legs over his lap, and then over his stomach as he got bigger. 

Grantaire was a small child, and he grew into a short teenager. But he leant how to defend himself, even if it was only by running away, and his daemon started to experiment with size, as well as shape - small and yappy when he was happy, and bigger and meaner when he felt scared or threatened. Sometimes he got so excited that she shifted into a pug that struggled to breath around her wheezing and jumping. 

But as he got older, his mood started to flatten out. Nothing was as engaging anymore. Nothing would give him the highs that once forced his daemon into spontaneous changes. And nothing was as sad, either. Just a bone deep weariness, and acceptance. His daemon stopped changing so much, too. She was always big and cumbersome, with droopy, glassy eyes, and Grantaire could rarely manage the effort to clean under the folds of her skin like he knew he should. 

Then one day he woke up, and she’d settled. And gone were the pugs and the labradors and the dobermans and the chihuahuas; even the big, sad bloodhounds. Instead, she was just a mutt - a little bit of everything, yes, but at the same time, nothing recognisable at all. 

These days, he can feel people’s stares when they’re together. And he knows what they look like - dogs are supposed to be loyal and hopeful and trusting, and Grantaire is none of those things.

But people forget what dogs are like when they've been kicked.

And then Grantaire meets Enjolras, and devotion makes sense again.

******************** 

Grantaire isn’t sure if going along to the next Amie’s meeting is a choice, or simply an inevitability. Either way, he’s there before anyone else, and already a beer and a half down when he starts to recognise the faces walking through the door. 

Enjolras doesn’t arrive last, but even so the meeting starts when he takes a seat at the table. Like last time he only speaks when addressed, and otherwise he listens intently. Even though Grantaire is the only one shamelessly staring at Enjolras, everyone else is keeping one eye on him too: together Combeferre and Courfeyrac do a decent job of actually steering the conversation from point to point, but it’s clear that Enjolras is the one who inspires them all. 

Grantaire sticks around again, after the conversation becomes more free-form and people start making their way into smaller groups and spreading out around the café. Enjolras doesn’t even look at him, which is not surprising, but somehow makes Grantaire feel a little colder in his gut. He spots Joly and Bossuet a couple of tables over, sitting with a girl who is making eyes at the both of them. He’s heard them mention her before, and he’s been wanting to meet her, but he isn’t willing to thrown them off their game. Joly must sense his eyes on him, however, and he looks up, spots him, and beckons him over. It would be rude to pretend like he didn’t notice them. He’s not having a foursome, through. Even if Joly weren’t like a brother to him, and Bossuet his brother’s boyfriend, it just seems like way too much work.

Joly introduces him as he sits down in the fourth chair, and Musichetta grins like she’s heard just as much about him as he has of her, which is flattering in its way. And he means to pay attention to their conversation, he really does, but Enjolras is _right there_ , right in his eyeline, and he finds his awareness trying to drift over to where he’s leaning in close to discuss something with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, their heads all bent together over a laptop, Combeferre’s hand on his back. It’s almost painfully idyllic. Combeferre’s big grey owl has her right wing fully extended, and Combeferre’s monkey is nestled in underneath it, straightening the feathers with her paws better than a beak ever could. 

Enjolras’ hen is on the other side of the café. It wasn’t that long ago that how far they are away from each other would have been a cause for concern or for fear. But as the world got bigger and more populated, it just started to be sensible to humans and daemons to practice putting some distance between them, incase they got pulled apart by something out of their control like packed public transport or a large, shoving crowd. She’s talking to a foal, sitting at the feet of the red-headed boy, Feuilly. The first time he had seen them, he had done a frantic google search, and breathed a massive sigh of release that the foal isn’t a shire horse. That would be too on the nose even for them.

Musichetta notices him staring. “Which one?” She asks, and her voice is mischievous and knowing at the same time.

“All of them.” Grantaire replies, with only a moment’s hesitation. He doesn’t want anyone to know about the stupid feelings he has for Enjolras, even if he doesn’t really believe that he doesn’t broadcast them to the world every time he thinks about him. And besides, it’s not entirely untrue. All three are beautiful in their own ways. But Enjolras is otherworldly. 

Musichetta smirks at him. “I get that.” She says. “They’re pretty perfect.” Grantaire frowns, because so is she. All of them are, to be completely honest. It’s ridiculous. Walking into the Musain had felt a little like walking onto a movie set - they, the implausibly handsome revolutionaries, and he the comic relief, where the “joke” is that an unattractive guy is crushing on someone so good looking and out of his league. 

“I’d love to see them together.” He says, to cover for his momentary self-loathing. “You know. For artistic purposes.” Musichetta winks like she agrees. Bossuet laughs so hard he starts to tilt precariously on his chair. 

Joly looks confused. “But they’re together right now.” He says, and Grantaire just honestly doesn’t understand the things he doesn’t get, sometimes. 

“No, I mean _together_.” He draws it out with a smirk, but Joly’s frown only deepens.

“Oh. They’re not together like _that_.” He says, and this time it’s Grantaire who’s confused. 

“But I’ve seen them touch each other’s daemons. They must be lovers.”

Bossuet makes a sudden shushing sound and flaps his hands. “Don’t let them hear you say that.” Jolly hisses, as Musichetta looks around the room in a deliberate but exaggerated manner. “Especially not Enjolras. Unless you _do_ want a lecture about how we devalue friendship.” And the way he emphasises “do” makes Grantaire think they have maybe been being polite to him and ignoring his blindingly obvious infatuation. 

“Oh.” Grantaire says, for lack of anything better to say. The other three are giving him their undivided attention for the first time since he joined them, and Grantaire gets the distinct feeling that he’s being tested. “I thought it was, you know, _pleasurable_ when you touched someone else’s daemon.”

Joly gives a rye smile. “Sure. It can be.” He replies, and his gaze briefly flits to Bossuet’s daemon. She’s an odd little animal - almost like a shrew, but with a long snout that she has a habit of poking into things and getting stuck. When they were first introduced, Grantaire had never seen anything like her, but Bossuet identified her as a solenodon, and said they are a native animal from Hispaniola, where his parents were born. Grantaire thinks it would have been cool for his daemon to say so much about his past, but his own family history is fairly dull. He probably would have ended up with a chicken, like Enjolras. Or more likely something less prideful, like a frog or a snail.

Joly looks back at him and blushes at his own implication. “But really,” he continues. “It depends on your intent. If you’re attracted to someone, then that’s what they’ll feel. If you hate them, then they’ll feel that too. And if you’re close friends, then touching each other’s daemons feels like a tight, warm hug, where you rock side to side on your feet in perfect harmony.” He looks over to where they’re still standing together. Enjolras’ hen has finished her conversation with the foal, and she’s perched on Courfeyrac’s head like his curls are a nest. “At least, that’s what Combeferre says.” Joly finishes. “It’s probably different for different people.”

Grantaire makes what he hopes is a non-committal humming sound, and he goes back to watching the three of them. He doesn’t know what shows on his face, but he can only imagine it’s pathetic, because Bossuet sighs. “The’d probably let you try it out yourself, if you asked.” He says, and for a moment, Grantaire lets himself imagine it; reaching out and touching those feathers. Would they be soft, and deep enough to bury his fingers in? Or stiff and solid? He doesn’t know. He’s never left Paris before, and he’s never asked the few street vendors at some of the local markets that sell chickens if he can handle one. 

But still, he lets himself imagine; how much Enjolras would feel from him. Pouring all of his longing and hope through the connection. Letting Enjolras feel his devotion, and his admiration. How just being near him makes him feel alive again, in a way that he hasn’t since he was a kid - like he can actually _feel_ things again, like the fire of passion that lives inside Enjolras is breathed out with his words, and melts the ice frozen in Grantaire’s brain that keeps all his thoughts stalled on cynicism and a deep, dark well of emptiness. And he imagines Enjolras feeling all of it, and _accepting_ it. Accepting _Grantaire_.

And then he takes that daydream, and he locks it up in a box; safe, but hidden and only for him. Because he _can’t_. He can’t touch Enjolras, let alone his daemon. He would taint them. They don’t deserve his darkness. 

“Maybe.” He says, instead, and Joly smiles encouragingly at him. Grantaire watches as Enjolras barks a laugh at something Courfeyrac says, and it’s and indelicate sound, but he throws back his head and grins and it’s like looking at the damn sun. Like Apollo himself. Grantaire gets the strangest urge to squint. 

Instead, he has another drink.

**Author's Note:**

> Warning that Enjolras touches someone's daemon without their consent to save someone's life.


End file.
